Peasants and Kings Read online

  Peasants and Kings

  Emma Slate

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  ©2020 by Emma Slate. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute or transmit in any form or by any means.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Sins of a King Blurb

  Sins of King Teaser

  Additional Works

  About the Author

  For my Sinners

  Prologue

  My heart thumped in my chest like the beat of a solemn war drum as I stared at the newly churned earth over my mother’s grave.

  The pulse of my blood reminded me that I was alive, and she was not.

  Ominous clouds dotted the sky. Thunder boomed in the distance, announcing impending weather. A warm, gentle breeze tugged at my hair.

  I clasped my hands together, my jaw clenched as I tried to keep my emotions locked inside me. If they were allowed to escape, allowed to run free, I might never be able to wrangle them back under control.

  My mother had been a devout Catholic, but she was now buried in a nondenominational cemetery in a town I’d never heard of. When the minister had called to inform me of her death and that her funeral had already been scheduled and paid for, my mind jumped into overdrive.

  Had she been sick? No. If she’d been sick, she would’ve tried to get into contact sooner than a week ago. I’d silenced her call and hadn’t even bothered listening to her voicemail. She called again and again. I’d deleted every message.

  My chest was tight with guilt, each breath like jagged glass puncturing my lungs and shredding my heart.

  I hadn’t cried. Not even when I’d gotten the phone call from the minister.

  What the hell was wrong with me? Was I in shock? Or was it something more?

  A lifetime of resentment had stood between us, and what began as months of not speaking so long ago had melded into years.

  Grief, shame, and confusion…it was an ongoing battle of emotions, the victor still unclear. Feelings consumed me like a tidal wave, and just when I was able to break the surface and breathe, another emotion would crash down on me.

  The soft tread of footsteps on damp grass momentarily diverted my attention. An older woman in a thick black sweater dress, black hose, and rounded-toe heels came toward me. Her chestnut hair was heavily laced with gray and her brown eyes were warm with compassion as they met my gaze. Her face was lined with age, smile parentheses bracketing her mouth and wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.

  She held a manila envelope. Her nails were perfectly manicured, and she wore a dainty diamond tennis bracelet.

  Who was this woman? She clearly had money, but it was more than that. She had class.

  This town didn’t showcase either of those things. When I’d driven down Main Street, I noticed the decayed state of the buildings. Those that weren’t boarded up were dilapidated and required renovation. Most needed new roofs and some were too rundown to inhabit, even for a business. No one had paved over the crumbling brick streets, not bothering to conceal the fact that the town had once been a bustling hub of economic activity at the height of an era when small-town America reigned. It was a time I’d only seen in vintage movies that my mother had loved to watch when I was a child. All that remained now were memories of what once was, a nostalgia that was nearly tangible.

  “Ms. Miller,” the woman greeted, hand outstretched with the envelope. “I’m very sorry for your loss. Your mother…was a good person.”

  She released the envelope as I grasped it and then turned to leave.

  “Wait!” I called to her.

  She looked over her shoulder.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. You’ll never see me again. Good luck, Sterling.”

  I swallowed as I watched her vacate the immaculate grounds of the cemetery. The lawns had been mown; the flower beds along the sidewalks were all pruned to perfection. It was as though the town cared more for the dead than the living.

  I looked down at the thick envelope. My finger toyed with the edge of it, wanting desperately to rip into it so I could devour my mother’s final words to me.

  I headed to my old blue Toyota Camry that was parked along the curb. It wasn’t going to turn heads, but it was reliable enough to have made the drive all the way from Dallas without a worry.

  As I drove back toward the cheap, outdated motel I was staying at near the edge of town, I kept glancing at the envelope that rested on the faded and cracked leather passenger seat. It taunted me, intrigued me. I didn’t know what I’d find when I opened it, and I wasn’t sure I was ready.

  I pulled into the parking lot of the motel. It looked like a crime scene waiting to happen. I’d only booked it for one night, but I wasn’t sure I even wanted to stay. I contemplated buying an energy drink and hitting the road—after I read my mother’s letter.

  I unlocked the door to the motel room and went inside. The old air conditioner kicked on as I entered, groaning and whirling, clearly struggling despite the fact that it wasn’t sweltering outside. The back of summer had broken, and it was nearly autumn, but still, the unit could barely keep up.

  The room smelled of must and decay, of a place long forgotten and hardly used. Everything was tan and brown, and the faded taupe carpet bubbled at the corners of the floor.

  I kicked off my heels and sat down on the edge of the bed, and finally, with a deep breath, ripped open the envelope.

  There was a folded letter inside with my name scrolled in her elegant handwriting.

  But that wasn’t all. I grabbed the thick envelope and turned it upside down so its contents spilled out. Bundles of bright green bills tumbled onto the questionable paisley bedspread.

  I reached for the letter and unfolded it. It was written in Italian, my mother’s native language.

  * * *

  Dear Sterling,

  I’ve started this letter so many times, never feeling like I said everything I needed to say or that I was able to say it coherently.

  So, I guess I’ll start writing and pray this is a decent goodbye.

  God, I wish there had been more time.

  There are so many things I want to tell you. So many moments I wish I could do over. Our estrangement hurts me more than you know. And you may not understand this because you’re not a mother, but everything I did, every choice I made, and every town I moved us to was to protect you.

  It’s always been about you, Sterling.

  There is nothing—NOTHING—a mother wouldn’t
do to protect her child, as I’ve tried to protect you. Even by committing this cardinal sin, I have to believe that God will forgive me because in taking my own life, I have given you a chance to live yours.

  It was the only way.

  All these years, I’ve let you think the worst of me. That I was unreliable, that I couldn’t ever hold down a job long enough to give you roots or provide a good life for you. The lie was easier to believe than the truth, a truth I never wanted to share with you, but now I must because your survival is at stake.

  What I’m about to tell you means life or death for you, Sterling.

  Do you remember the stories I told you when you were a child? About a beautiful princess who rode bareback on a great black stallion through the luscious green forest and rolling hills of her family’s estate? An estate so grand and opulent that it rivaled the great palaces of Europe? Those stories weren’t fiction. They weren’t made up to lull you to sleep with your head full of dreams and whimsy. Those were stories from my own childhood.

  I come from a family called Moretti, and we can trace our lineage back to The Crusades. Within our veins runs the blood of the Compagnia Bianca del Falco, known as The White Company. We are fantastically wealthy Italian mercenaries that yield great power and influence amongst Western Europe, and our family name is known within elite circles.

  We are one of the five powerful families who control Italy. The other families are Lanza, Borgia, Sforza, and the Foscari.

  Power, bloodlines, archaic alliances…that is all my family—and the other four families—care about. A feud had erupted between our family and the Foscari, but in our world, grievances can be mended if bloodlines are united…

  For that reason, before I was even born, I was promised to a Foscari for a grand marriage that would unite two great Italian families, putting an end to past injustices. But when I was seventeen, I fell in love with a boy who was not my intended. Foolish, young, and drunk on first love, we married in secret beneath the stars. We plotted and planned how to flee, wishing to escape the bonds of our social classes. We chose love over family and obligation.

  When the Foscari learned of my betrayal, they found and murdered my husband—your father—in cold blood. After the punishment was complete, the families still wished to join our bloodlines and even though I was no longer a virgin, the Foscari were willing to forge ahead with the marriage. Secrets can be kept within families, but a public failure to unite the bloodlines was impermissible.

  Grieving the loss of my love, I was numb to everything around me. I had plans to go through with the marriage. After all, I saw the power of the Foscari firsthand, the brutality of them. What choice did I have?

  But then I realized I was pregnant with you.

  For myself, I was willing to be a sacrificial lamb. But God knows what they would’ve done if they’d realized I was pregnant with a peasant’s child. The child of a man they had no qualms about murdering. What would they do to you to protect their own family name, their own legacy?

  I went to the Catholic Church to seek guidance, and there I crossed paths with a nun, Sister Agatha, who was sympathetic to my situation. She saw my marriage to your father as valid in the eyes of God and believed her duty was to protect you and me from such horrible people at all costs. You were not even born yet, but she knew what would happen when you were. Risking her own life, she helped me escape to the United States and stayed with me here until you were more than a year old. I changed my last name to Miller, wanting nothing more than to disappear and to blend in, leaving the Moretti name behind forever. I wanted to shield you from what I feared most in this world…

  I know it sounds like I’ve lost my mind, but you need to trust me, Sterling. It’s all so very real.

  I know how hard it’s been all these years, never settling down long enough for you to form lasting friendships, never letting you get too close to anyone except for Tiffany. Against my better judgement, I let you have one summer. A golden summer of fun and laughter. It was dangerous, but necessary. I’ve never seen your smile so carefree as I did that summer. Tiffany saved you in a way that I couldn’t.

  I’m sorry I had to rip you away from that small glimmer of normal life. I’m sorry for the years of animosity between us, but I hope you can understand why it had to be this way.

  You are in great danger, Sterling.

  The Foscari have never stopped hunting me, and even though I’ve managed to evade them, they finally found Sister Agatha. Something went wrong. A slip of the tongue, a comment in passing, someone she knew who had connections back home. She died a horrible death to try to protect us, but no one can withstand torture. She knew you were alive, knew your given name, and she had already seen you begin to grow as a child. There was no hiding your eyes from her…

  You have a genetic trait called heterochromia. That in and of itself is not unheard of, but once or twice every generation, a Moretti woman is born with one turquoise colored eye and the other a vibrant green. It wasn’t random like I told you when you were a child.

  Though Sister Agatha knew about your Moretti trait, that was all she knew. She couldn’t lead them directly to you, only tell them that twenty-four years ago, I had borne a healthy baby girl.

  But I know everything. What you look like as an adult, where you’ve lived in the past, people you’ve known, everything. If they find me, they’ll torture me until I tell them where you are.

  And Tiffany? I can’t let your best friend get hurt too. If the Foscari find me, you’ll both be in danger.

  You must disappear. You have to acquire a new identity. Leave everything and everyone you know behind. Sever all ties. Say nothing of your life, me, or anything you know to be true about who you are. Conceal your eyes from the world. Don’t speak Italian and try to blend in. If you must, use the information I’ve given you to avoid anyone connected with the Foscari and never look back.

  The Foscari have been wronged and I don’t want to imagine your future if they find you.

  There are some things worse than death.

  This next part is the most important of all—you cannot go to my family. The Moretti will not protect you. They would rather turn you over to the Foscari to honor their debt than they would defend you. Even though you’re only half Moretti, they still value your bloodline. I have dishonored the family in an irrevocable way, and I have no doubt they’ll make you pay for my sins.

  I left Italy to give you a chance to live. I left Italy because I didn’t want anyone to use you as a pawn to further their agenda of seeking wealth and power.

  I’m so sorry, la mia bellissima figlia. I’m so sorry to leave you with such a bitter truth. I chose love when I married your father, and now I’m afraid that following my heart has changed the course of your life.

  I love you more than you can possibly know. I wish I could’ve given you more. A father. A family. A home.

  I never told you his name, but that never stopped you from wanting to know about him. Your father’s name was Gianni Russo, and he would’ve loved you more than anything in this world. He was a good man, Sterling. The blood of him is within you, but so is that of a Moretti.

  I have left you all that I have—twenty thousand dollars in cash to help you disappear. I’m sorry it couldn’t be more.

  Be safe, be smart, and above all, survive.

  All my love,

  Your mother

  * * *

  I crumbled the note in my hand so I wouldn’t see the streaky ink of her words, smeared from the tears she’d shed while writing the letter, and smeared once again from my own.

  When I was done crying, I flattened the paper and read it over and over. Names from the letter stared angrily back at me. Moretti. Foscari. Russo. Compagnia Bianca del Falco.

  Guilt and shame over ignoring her phone calls and attempted overtures over the years clawed at me. I finally understood why she’d been relentless in trying to get my attention, but anger from my childhood had clouded everything that had to do with her. />
  My mind whirled in an attempt to process the truth. How was I supposed to reconcile her sacrifices? Everything she’d done had been to make sure I lived. She’d protected me at every turn. But because of her secrets, our relationship had been tainted. At eighteen, I’d left the house and never looked back, tired of the excuses and nonsensical nature of our lives. Nothing had made sense.

  It made sense now.

  I cried for the loss of her, not just for her death, but for the years of misunderstandings. Why hadn’t she told me earlier? Why hadn’t she told me the truth? Why had she waited until there was six years of silence between us before coming clean? Would I have been brave enough at eighteen to even hear the truth?

  I’d never know.

  All I knew was that she’d taken her own life to protect me.

  Flopping back onto the bed, emotions washed over me. I stared at the nicotine stained white popcorn ceiling of the motel room, hating that I couldn’t stop the tears from leaking down my cheeks.

  My heart lurched in my chest. She’d loved me. More than she should have. I was undeserving of it.

  Be safe, be smart, and above all, survive.

  Terror bloomed in the midst of grief.

  The fear of the Foscari finding me had motivated her to take her own life. I would not let my mother’s death be in vain.

  But how the hell was I supposed to get a new identity? She’d said it in the letter like it was easy enough to go to the store and grab a new one off the shelf.